


Pining

by ChiyuWrites



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Idiots, M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 12:53:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiyuWrites/pseuds/ChiyuWrites
Summary: The night after Aziraphale and Crowley agree on their plan to influence the upbringing of the Antichrist together, they each—separately—indulge in their unspoken desires for one another.Or, these two just never seem to get on the same page in the same place at the same time, am I right?





	Pining

**Author's Note:**

> So I haven’t written anything in over a decade now (and I’m terribly rusty) but then Good Omens happened and these two have been driving me crazy. Constantly. _For months._ And I couldn’t resist any longer. Hope you enjoy~

“You can’t be certain that thwarting me isn’t part of the divine plan, too. I mean, you’re supposed to thwart the wiles of the evil one at every turn, aren’t you?”

Sound logic, if Crowley did say so himself. Which he did, _frequently_, as he so often had to rely on massaging facts into something more palatable to Aziraphale for him to ever agree to go along with one of the demon’s moderately infernal schemes. Surely the gravity of this particular situation does warrant such mental acrobatics, though? He didn’t have untold centuries’ worth of time to painstakingly drop nuggets of suggestions into their conversations here and there in the hopes of gradually convincing the angel that his messy collection of half-truths wasn’t all that bad. Time was of the essence, and the entire world was at stake—_for Satan’s sake_.

And besides, was anything he was saying entirely untrue this time? Who could honestly say other than God Herself, and She—sure as _heaven_—wasn’t in the saying type of mood.

“See a wile... ya’ thwart, am i right?”

A soft smile of tacit agreement spread across Aziraphale’s beautiful, angelic face, and Crowley’s heart leapt so spectacularly that it nearly escaped his through his throat.

And thus, a plan to avert the—now terrifyingly imminent—apocalypse had been conceived, shaken on, and promptly drowned away under another even more extraordinary amount of alcohol. Not bad for an evening’s worth of angel persuasion.

—-

Details of their “foolproof” plan were sure to come later, Aziraphale hoped apprehensively. After all, they were both far too rattled by the events of the day and far too deep into their second deluge of wine of the evening to dedicate any more thought to the how and the when and the what of their plan to go about saving themselves (and everyone else, of course).

For now, the pair had decided to place their hopes in each other’s seemingly limitless imagination and industriousness. They simply had to—simply _must_—believe in each other’s abilities in order to stave off the fear of their impending doom.

After all, what would Aziraphale even _do_ without the humanly pleasures that he had come to hold quite dear over these past 6000 years? How was he to fill his days without his beloved collection of books? What would we do without his favorite patisserie? Without his Châteauneuf du Pape? Without the occasional late-night drunken _fraternizing_ with a certain breathtaking demon, the unknowing object of his bountiful affections?

Oh _perish the thought_.

What would he do—for _eternity_—without this sinfully handsome creature that haunts his every waking thought by his side? This being who so thoroughly incites the most _delicious_ feelings in him? Feelings that had been—until quite recently—so deeply repressed that once accepted in any small measure began flowing out in an unprecedented tidal wave of want and desire.

What was he to do without the one entity in existence who is capable of rendering him completely, helplessly boneless with the slightest sway of his hips? How does _anyone_expect him to simply walk away from those charming golden, slitted eyes and that painfully perfect flame-red hair that he would give anything to run his hands through right now? And what if his demon would _like_ such a thing? What then? How is he supposed to live without the hope that one day such happiness and love and passion could be theirs to enjoy out in the open? (Well, not literally out in the open... _Unless_...)

It’s frightfully unfair that he is expected to accept the slow, endless forward-marching advance of eternity without all of this that he had so painstakingly collected for himself. And for what? To fight alongside those who never have and never will understand him for the sake of a cause that he’s frankly not sure he wholeheartedly believes in anymore. (Although he would never be caught actually putting words to anything of the sort. Treason, and all that.)

He simply cannot stand for this. He will do everything in his heavenly power to keep this small, earthly home full of his small, earthly pleasures intact.

A stray bit of their earlier conversation worked its way through his drunken haze into the forefront of his mind once again. _We’d be godfathers, sort of. Overseeing his upbringing._

Aziraphale‘s body flushed hot at the sheer, implied _domesticity_ of it all. Good lord, he needed another drink.

——

The night was young, but they most certainly were not and the sheer amount of wine that was being consumed between the two of them was bordering on obscene.

“And... my dear, you’ll never beli- belief- beleeeav... You really would never guess... guess which author was the most _stingy_ about signing his firs- first- editions for me... Oh come now, dear, _guess_!” A long, drunken silence filled the room as Crowley contemplated the curious disparity between how little he cared about this particular subject and how much he cared about the angel in general.

“Uh......... Dr. Seuss?”

“....What?! No... I... no! _What?_ Dear, are you making fun... are making fun of me again, aren’t you?”

“‘Course not, angel.” Crowley smiled at him with abundant fondness. “Tell me? Who was it?” He swayed around reaching for a nearby bottle of wine to give the angel another top off that he definitely did not need.

“Oh! Thank you _so much_, my dear- my dearest.” Crowley’s insides fluttered uncontrollably at the endearment as his most precious angel took a sip and let out an almost inaudible moan as he was very pleased with what he found in his glass.

Aziraphale really should not be allowed to be this thoughtlessly alluring. He shouldn’t be allowed to drink so heavily that he loses _just enough_ self control to leave his lips still glistening with spit after licking at a dribble of wine that didn’t quite make it into his mouth. He looks delectably kissable with the soft lamplight of the bookshop bouncing off of that lingering wetness. Crowley wants to devour those lips. Crowley would utterly _destroy_ those lips.

_Fffffuuuck_, the prissy bastard doesn’t know what he _does_ to him, Crowley thought, drunkenly. Aziraphale, that so-smart-yet-somehow-so-stupid angel, should _honestly_know by now how he drives Crowley mad if he was paying the situation the slightest modicum of attention.

He should plainly see how he’s managed to melt the demon down into a pliable goo willing to do anything asked of him—if Aziraphale ever would just _ask_. Crowley’s mind began to clumsily stumble about some interestingly unangelic propositions he’d be very willing to consider as he tuned out Aziraphale’s incessant drawling on about _books_(or whatever). He felt his usually very tightly controlled body beginning to misbehave at the onslaught of filth he’d just mentally unleashed and panicked. He couldn’t be having these errant thoughts while still in Aziraphale’s company; the humiliation of the angel realizing that Crowley was halfway to a boner during their conversation might utterly destroy him—without even a drop of holy water in sight.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head furiously as if he could fling any and all unrequited thoughts out of his brain with enough centrifugal force.

_FUCK_. He had to get out of the bookshop before he became wholly unnecessary. Standing abruptly, he rattled off a string of flimsy excuses for his departure that left Aziraphale blinking like a cartoon in confusion as the wine-soaked sponge that had replaced his brain attempted to catch up and decode what just happened and why he was so suddenly, regrettably alone.

Denial was one of Crowley’s most well practiced past times—he really was fantastic at it after all these years—and because of such, as he hurriedly left the bookshop he began quietly repeating to himself over and over again that he was definitely _not_ on his way to find a fluffy, adorable human with a head of of fluffy, adorable golden hair who was definitely _not_ a poor stand-in for a certain fluffy, adorable angel—the unwitting love of his life with a smile as bright and warm and unrelenting as the sunshine—and he was _definitely not_ going to _fuck the everloving shit_ out of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Next time, pornography!


End file.
